


The Picture of Will Graham

by MaryLautner



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Dorian Gray Fusion, Alternate Universe - Victorian, Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Caring Hannibal Lecter, Dark Will Graham, Hannibal Lecter Loves Will Graham, Hannibal Lecter is a Mess, Idiots in Love, Jealous Hannibal Lecter, M/M, Possessive Hannibal Lecter, Protective Hannibal Lecter, Sassy Will Graham, Someone Help Will Graham
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-04
Updated: 2021-02-19
Packaged: 2021-03-15 15:40:51
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,953
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29191695
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MaryLautner/pseuds/MaryLautner
Summary: Will Graham is the subject of a full-length portrait in oil by Alana Bloom, an artist impressed and infatuated by Will's beauty. When Lord Hannibal Lecter sees the marvelous painting, he is immediately transfixed at the sheer perfection of Will Graham. He is besotted by the image alone, and demands to meet Will. What Lord Hannibal fails to factor in is how he would react in seeing the man in person...until he does. The lives of both men are changed forever, and the world pays the price.-The Picture of Dorian Gray - Hannibal AU because Lord Henry is definitely Hannibal Lecter minus the murder!
Relationships: Will Graham & Hannibal Lecter, Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter
Comments: 38
Kudos: 155





	1. An Extraordinarily Beautiful Young Man

**Author's Note:**

> I've had this idea in my head ever since I finished The Picture of Dorian Gray, and because Hannibal NBC literally occupies a space in my mind rent free, I figured why not give it a shot! Era-typical homophobia is nonexistent in this fic.
> 
> This is my first Hannibal fic and I don't have a beta so all mistakes are mine! I hope you like it! Also, who's willing to sacrifice a goat to get Hannibal S4? Anyone taking one for the team?

The room was filled with the rich odor of roses. And when the light summer wind stirred amidst the garden trees, there came through the open door the heavy scent of lilac or the more delicate perfume of the pink-flower thorn. Either of the two was not lost on the eccentric creature occupying the studio. 

Sitting on a sofa, smoking a cigarette, was Lord Hannibal Lecter, one of London's most eligible bachelors. The man wore a three-piece plaid suit with a matching burgundy tie and pocket square, procured from Paris about a fortnight ago. His hair had once been blonde, but it had turned lighter with streaks of silver, signifying his age. He exuded wealth and class, and even the way he sat, chest out and back straight, was nothing but graceful.

The sullen murmur of the bees shouldering their way through the long unmown grass, or circling with monotonous insistence round the dusty gilt horns of the straggling woodbine, seemed to make the stillness more oppressive. Through the open door came the London streets' distant sounds, seemingly in tempo with Lord Hannibal's heartbeat. 

Lord Hannibal Lecter woke to a bright, sunny day. He went about his morning routine, answered a few letters, and met with his steward. Being one of the most respected aristocrats in the neighborhood came with more than a handful of responsibilities he did not care about. All in all, it was a normal, boring day. A day where he felt the dull monotony of life. 

Fortunately for him, Alana Bloom invited him for tea. That was how he found himself here, eyes glued on a compelling image.

In the center of the room stood a portrait of a wonderful young man. Sitting a little distance in front of it was the artist herself, Alana Bloom, a gorgeous young lady of seven and twenty. As the painter looked at the portrait, she smiled.

"It is your best work, Alana, the best thing you have ever done," said Lord Hannibal earnestly, still quite obviously ogling the portrait. He always admired Alana's work, although it was vastly different from his own. "You really must send it next year to the Grosvenor. The Grosvenor is really the only place to exhibit a painting like that." Although with every second that passed, Lord Hannibal was tempted to buy it himself. 

He had never exhibited his paintings anywhere. Heavens, no. His creations were only for a few nobles and acquaintances to see and purchase. It had been a thing to covet - an original Lecter. 

"I don't think I shall send it anywhere," Alana answered, moving her head in that sweet way that made young men appraise her quietly. Even Lord Hannibal had once been transfixed, briefly entertaining the idea of a fling. But it ultimately led nowhere. His attention was fast and fleeting. Humans, or pigs, as he sometimes referred to them, bored him. It was akin to being the only person privy to the rules of chess - or even the game itself - while the rest played checkers. A saddening thought.

Alana cocked her head to the side with an edge of finality. "No: I won't send it anywhere." 

Lord Hannibal looked at her in surprise - what he passed off as surprise, which meant a minuscule widening of his eyes - through the thin blue smoke of his cigarette. "Not send it anywhere? Alana, dear, why not? Have you any reason? When I first met you, you did anything in the world to gain a reputation. And now that you have one, you seem to want to throw it away. It is silly of you, for there is only one thing in the world worse than being talked about, and that is not being talked about. A portrait like this would set you far above all the painters in England."

Even if Alana wasn't up to par with his talents, he could admit the beauty of the painting, the careful strokes of the brush, the balance of darkness with light.  
Something inside him whispered that it was simply the muse of the portrait. A handsome fellow indeed...if only he knew who it was.

"I know you will laugh at me," Alana replied, chewing her bottom lip. "but I really can't exhibit it. I have put too much of myself into it."

Lord Hannibal stretched himself out on the sofa and chuckled. "Too much of yourself in it? Alana, this man is one of a kind. And no offense, my dear, but he does not look like you. I mean, biologically alone. I really can't see any resemblance between you, with your small face and your coal-black hair, and this young Adonis, who looks as if he was made of ivory and rose-leaves. Why, my dear Alana, he is Narcissus, and you—well, of course, you have an intellectual expression, and all that, and I do adore you so. But he is the epitome of flawlessness. Like everything Botticelli wanted to paint and more."

Now, if anyone had told Lord Hannibal this, he would surely take offense, the egotistical noble that he was, but it had to be said. He had to get his point across. Besides, Alana knew him well enough to know his intentions. 

"You don't understand me, Hannibal," answered the artist, stifling a roll of the eyes. She was well aware that Hannibal had leeway to be rude, but she could not. Dared not. To be rude to the great Hannibal Lecter was a crime in and of itself. "Of course, I am not like him. I would be sorry to look like him! It is better not to be different from other people. The stupid and ugly have the best of Will Graham -"

"Will Graham? Is that his name?" Asked Lord Hannibal with unprecedented excitement. He even shocked himself with his enthusiasm. 

The urge to know, to see, to touch was both electrifying and terrifying. And all this from a painting of the man! What of the man himself? Lord Hannibal needed to know more about him. To drink every information like a dying man. Why was this the first he heard of the demigod?

Needing a distraction from his musings, he walked across the room towards Alana Bloom, who looked perturbed. 

"Yes, that is his name. I wasn't going to tell you."

Lord Hannibal stilled, annoyance rebounding off his nerves. How dare Alana keep such an angel from him? 

"But why not?"

"Oh, I can't explain. When I like people immensely, I never tell their names to anyone. It seems like surrendering a part of them. You know how I love secrecy. It is the only thing that can make modern life wonderful or mysterious to us. The commonest thing is delightful if one only hides it. When I leave town, I never tell people where I am going. If I did, I would lose all my pleasure. It is a silly habit, I dare say, but somehow it seems to bring a great deal of romance into one's life. I suppose you think me foolish about it?"

'Yes,' thought Lord Hannibal. 'Immensely.'

"Not at all," answered Lord Hannibal with an angelic smile plastered on his devious face, "not at all, my dear Alana. You forget that everyone has their little kinks. I myself have secrets."

Secrets that she would be privy to if she continued this path of resistance.

"I dislike the way you think about life, Hannibal, I always did," said Alana, walking towards the door that led into the garden. "I believe that you are thoroughly ashamed of your virtues. You are an extraordinary fellow. You never say a moral thing, and you never do a wrong thing. Your cynicism is simply a pose. I believe you are a good person, deep inside you. I believe in the man I met, many moons ago, at the charity ball. You donated a colossal amount of money to the unfortunate."

Lord Hannibal laughed, and the two went out into the garden together. "Oh, Alana, I do admire the way you sport your rose-colored glasses. Your desire to see the best in people, to help when help is due, to lead a righteous life, is very entertaining to me."

After a pause, Lord Hannibal pulled out his watch. "I am afraid I have to go, Alana," he said in a quiet voice. "And before I go, I insist on you answering a question I put to you some time ago."

"What is that?" asked Alana, keeping her eyes fixed on the ground.

"You know quite well."

"I do not, Hannibal."

"Well, I will tell you what it is."

"Please don't."

"I must. I want you to explain to me why you won't exhibit Will Graham's picture. I want the real reason." For added measure, Lord Hannibal forced Alana to look him in the eye.

"I told you the real reason." Was the stubborn reply from the painter, testing Lord Hannibal's tattered patience.

"No, you did not. You said it was because there was too much of yourself in it. Now, that is childish."

"Hannibal," said Alana, ire lighting up in her eyes, "every portrait that is painted with feeling is a portrait of the artist, not the sitter. I will not exhibit this picture because I am afraid that I have shown in it the secret of my soul."

Lord Hannibal controlled his features. "And what is that?" he asked.

"I will tell you," said Alana, and an expression of perplexity came over her face.

"I am all expectation," murmured her companion, crossing his hands in front of him. 

"Oh, there is really very little to tell, Hannibal," answered Alana, swiveling on her toes in distress, her petticoat slamming on the nearby bench, "and I don't think you will understand. Perhaps you won't believe it."

Lord Hannibal smiled and picked a flower from the grass. "I am quite sure I'll understand it," he replied, staring at the peak, "and I can believe anything." Even morally gray topics of the macabre.

The wind shook some blossoms from the trees, and the heavy lilac blooms, with their clustering stars, moved to and fro in the stagnant air. A grasshopper began to chirrup in the grass, and a long thin dragon-fly floated by on its brown gauze wings. Lord Hannibal felt as if he could hear Alana's heart beating, and he wondered what was coming.

"The story is simply this," said the painter. "Two months ago, I went to a party at Lord Crawford's. After I had been in the room for about ten minutes, I suddenly realized that someone was looking at me. I turned around and saw Will Graham for the first time. When our eyes met, I felt the blood leaving my face. I knew that I had come face to face with someone whose mere personality was so fascinating that, if I allowed it to do so, it would absorb my whole nature, my whole soul, my very art itself."

Lord Hannibal tapped his forefinger on his chin twice. A jolt of anger sparked in his chest at the mere thought of Alana staking a claim on Michaelangelo's David come to life. No, Alana could never make Will Graham happy. The demigod deserved all the stars in the galaxy, and Alana could not even give him a ripple in a lake.

"What did you do then?"

Alana dared to blush, and Lord Hannibal resisted the urge to snap her neck. It was indeed a snappable neck. Perhaps tomorrow.

"We were quite close, almost touching. Our eyes met again. I asked Lord Crawford to introduce me to him."

Appalling. 

"And how did Lord Crawford describe this wonderful young man?"

"Oh, he murmured, 'Charming boy— plays with dogs—or helps me at Scotland Yard'. He continued to gush about Will that neither of us stopped laughing, and we became friends at once."

"Laughter is not a bad beginning for a friendship, and it is the best ending for one," said Lord Hannibal, plucking another daisy. The turmoil in his chest stirred with every mention of the young man.

Scotland Yard, hm? Interesting.

Alana buried her face in her hands. "You don't understand what friendship is, Hannibal," she murmured. "Or what enmity is, for that matter. You like everyone; that is to say, you are indifferent to everyone."

"How horribly unjust of you!" cried Lord Hannibal, tilting his hat back and looking up at the little clouds that were drifting across the hollowed turquoise of the summer sky, like raveled skeins of glossy white silk. "Yes, horribly unjust of you. I make a great difference between people. I choose my friends for their good looks, my acquaintances for their characters, and my enemies for their brains. A man can't be too careful in the choice of his enemies. I have not got one who is a fool. They are all men of every intellectual power, and consequently, they all appreciate me. Is that very vain of me? I think it is rather vain."

"I should think it was, Hannibal. But according to your category, I must be merely an acquaintance."

"My dear Alana, you are much more than an acquaintance." A nuisance, perhaps, quickly growing to be a rival. "Tell me more about Will Graham. How often do you see him?"

Alana beamed, the afternoon sun bouncing off of her pale face. "Every day. I couldn't be happy if I didn't see him every day. Of course, sometimes it is only for a few minutes. But a few minutes with somebody one worships mean a great deal."

Alana? Worship Will Graham? Good god, the poor god must be in dire need of a few sacrifices if so! Alana had no clue what she was doing.

"He is all my art to me now. There is nothing that art cannot express, and I know that the work I have done since I met Will Graham is good work, is the best work of my life. But in some curious way—I wonder will you understand me?—his personality has suggested to me an entirely new manner in art, an entirely new mode of style. It is what Will Graham has been to me. The merely visible presence of this lad —for he seems to me little more than a lad, though he is over twenty,—his merely visible presence,—ah! I wonder can you realize all that that means? Hannibal! If you only knew what Will Graham is to me!"

Lord Hannibal's face darkened, and he briefly entertained the idea of passionate crimes. Surely he could make it look like an accident? Poison in Alana's tea? Stuff lead down her throat? He could make do with simple murder for today.

He took both of Alana's soft hands and said in his most grievous tone. "Alana, I must meet Will Graham." 

The painter got up from the seat and walked up and down the garden. After some time she came back. "You don't understand, Hannibal," she said. "Will Graham is a motive in art. He is never more present in my work than when no image of him is there. He is simply a suggestion, as I have said, of a new manner. I see him in the curves of certain lines, in the loveliness and the subtleties of certain colors. That is all."

"Then why won't you exhibit his portrait?"

"Because I have put into it all the extraordinary romance of which, of course, I have never dared to speak to him. He knows nothing about it. He will never know anything about it. But the world might guess it, and I will not bare my soul to their shallow, prying eyes. My heart shall never be put under their microscope. There is too much of myself in the thing, Hannibal—too much of myself!"

"I think you are wrong, Alana, but I won't argue with you. It is only the intellectually lost who ever argues. Tell me, is Will Graham very fond of you?"

The crux of the matter. Either way, Lord Hannibal knows quite a few ways to alienate the god from his unworthy servant. Not existing in the same realm was a possibility. 

Alana considered for a few moments. "He likes me," she answered, after a pause. Lord Hannibal broke a twig. "I know he likes me. Of course, I flatter him dreadfully. I find a strange pleasure in saying things to him that I know I shall be sorry for having said. I give myself away. As long as I live, the personality of Will Graham will dominate me. You can't feel what I feel. You change too often."

She was correct, and Lord Hannibal never cared too much about friendships or deep-rooted bonds. But that painting, the man in the picture bewitched him. He craved to know more. Something in his heart scratched and drew blood.

"Ah, my dear Alana, that is exactly why I can feel it. Those who are faithful know only the pleasures of love: it is the faithless who know love's tragedies." There was a rustle of chirruping sparrows in the ivy, and the blue cloud shadows chased themselves across the grass like swallows. He turned to Alana and said, "My dear, I have just remembered."

"Remembered what, Hannibal?"

"Where I heard the name of Will Graham."

"Where was it?" asked Alana, with a slight frown. 

"Don't look so angry, Alana. It was at Lady Bedelia's. She told me she had discovered a wonderful young man, who was going to help her in the East End, and that his name was Will Graham. I am bound to state that she never told me he was good-looking. Women have no appreciation of good looks. At least, good women have not. She said that he was very earnest, and had a beautiful nature. I at once pictured to myself a creature with spectacles and lank hair, horridly freckled, and tramping about on huge feet. I wish I had known it was your friend."

"I am very glad you didn't, Hannibal."

"Why?"

"I don't want you to meet him."

A rake. There was a rake close to Lord Hannibal that he could use to trample her. His fingers itched. 

"Mr. Will Graham is in the studio, madam," said the butler, coming into the garden, unknowingly saving his employer.

"You must introduce me now," ordered Lord Hannibal, ignoring Alana's wishes. A new emotion bubbled to the surface of his walls. He couldn't quite name it. And it thrilled him.

She turned to the servant, who stood blinking in the sunlight. "Ask Mr. Graham to wait, Parker: I will be in in a few moments." The man bowed and went up the walk.

Then she looked at Lord Hannibal. "Will Graham is my dearest friend," she said. "He has a simple and beautiful nature. Lady Bedelia was quite right in what she said of him. Don't spoil him for me. Don't try to influence him. Your influence would be bad. The world is wide and has many marvelous people in it. Don't take away from me the one person who makes life absolutely lovely to me, which gives my art whatever wonder or charm it possesses. Mind, Hannibal, I trust you." She spoke very slowly, and the words seemed wrung out of her almost against her will.

"What nonsense you talk!" said Lord Hannibal, smiling, and, taking Alana by the arm, he almost led her into the house.

As they entered, they saw Will Graham. He was seated at the piano, with his back to them, turning over the pages of The Iliad by Homer. 

Lord Hannibal was immediately awestruck, every nerve in his body coming to life. Previous scents held nothing over the sweet and musky smell of the young man, previous beauties fading away into the abyss until all he saw, all his mind palace filled with, were images of the god in front of him. 

He conjured images of Achilles in the battlefield, strong and invincible. Powerful. But no, no, Will Graham was softer and much purer than that. 

Lord Hannibal smiled. No, Will Graham was Patroclus. 

If it was at all possible, Will Graham looked better in person than in Alana's magnificent portrait. From his jet-black hair, baby blue eyes, soft cheekbones, and sharp jawline, it was akin to a sculpture come to life. 

For a moment, Lord Hannibal could do nothing but stare, appreciate it for all its splendor. He didn't think anything could make the moment more perfect than it already was. All the Aria's in existence combined to form the quintessential music to fit this fever dream. It was one of those times that had nothing more to add. Or so he thought. 

Will Graham's eyes strayed from the book, to the lining of the wall, and then finally met his gaze and saw through the darkness of his soul. Every piece Lord Hannibal kept hidden from the world.  
And in that second, Lord Hannibal knew.  
He was no longer alone.  
And for the first time since he could remember, the monotony of life skidded to a halt. 

The beast in his heart awoke.


	2. The God of My Idolatry

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for the kudos, comments, and love! I absolutely adore communicating with the fannibal community.   
> As always, all mistakes are mine.

Wise, brilliant men once believed that we were alone in the Universe. They once thought of our world as being the only world in existence. Once deemed our stars and meteors unique ones. 

Lord Hannibal did not share these inconsequential beliefs. He even dubbed them foolish. That was until Will Graham's aqua eyes stabbed through his carefully stitched persona. And now he understood how ancient philosophers thought such selfish things. For in that world-shattering and momentous occasion, his world revolved around one thing and one thing only. 

Adonis in the flesh. 

Sometime along Lord Hannibal's rude and obvious ogling, Will Graham stood up, closed the book shut, and strode toward them. 

The gravitational pull of the planet moved with him, and in turn, both Alana and Lord Hannibal took a step forward, getting pulled along with it.

"You must lend me this book, Alana," Will Graham pleaded, voice as delicious as saccharin. It'd be a miracle if anyone could say no to him. "It is very intriguing."

Alana gave him a frenzied smile, and Lord Hannibal thought her grin was a bit too flirtatious for his liking. "That entirely depends on how you sit today, Will."

"Oh, I am tired of sitting, and I don't want a life-sized portrait of myself," answered the lad, and when he can no longer ignore the presence of the stranger, turned his probing stare back to him. "I beg your pardon, Alana, but I didn't know you had anyone with you."

What it was like to be noticed by him. What it was like to have those eyes directed at him. Lord Hannibal would gauge the eyes of anyone who dared take it away. The spark turned into flames. 

Alana, somewhat begrudgingly, introduced her friend. "This is Lord Hannibal Lecter, Will, an old friend of mine. I have just been telling him what a capital sitter you were, and now you have spoiled everything."

Lord Hannibal did not miss the emphasis on his age, and in his petulant way, blocked Alana by crowding Will. They were like children fighting over the newest toy.

"You have not spoiled my pleasure in meeting you, Mr. Graham," said Lord Hannibal, raising his hand, palm up. "Lady Bedelia has often spoken to me about you. You are one of her favorites, and, I am afraid, one of her victims also."

Will assessed the open invitation, familiar with the meaning. Men and women alike often wanted to kiss his hand, but he rarely bestowed the pleasure. Touching, eye contact, and any form of intimacy made him uncomfortable. 

Lord Hannibal, having thrown patience and sanity out the window, took the choice upon himself and grabbed Will's hand, placing a gentle but searing kiss on the pale skin. 

Soft. Oh, so soft. Like the finest silk in China. 

Colors burst behind Lord Hannibal's eyelids, a thousand different tastes filling his mouth until the overwhelming sensation threatened to render him an imbecile. 

Lord Hannibal looked at him. Really looked at him. Yes, Will Graham was certainly wonderfully handsome, with his finely-curved scarlet lips, frank blue eyes, and crisp black hair. There was something in his face that made one trust him at once. All the candor of youth was there, as well as all youth's passionate purity. One felt that he had kept himself unspotted from the world. No wonder Alana worshipped him. He was made to be worshipped.

Lord Hannibal Lecter had just found religion. And there was nothing more dangerous than that, especially for a once glorified sinner. 

To Will's credit, he seemed disturbed. But at least he had a reason to be, as a stranger mildly harassed him. The kiss had ended, but Lord Hannibal still held his hand. 

"Are you always this forward, sir?" Asked the young man, pulling back. Correction, he had to wrench his hand away. Good Heavens.

Lord Hannibal smiled innocently and flung himself down on the divan. "But whatever do you mean?"

Alana had been busy mixing her colors and getting her brushes ready. She was looking worried, and when she heard Lord Hannibal's remark, she glanced at him, hesitated for a moment, and then said, "Hannibal, I want to finish this picture today. Would you think it awfully rude of me if I asked you to go away?"

Will's eyebrows shot up at Alana's unabashed annoyance. One thing he loved about her was her compassion, but it seemed as if there was none left for her friend.

Lord Hannibal smiled and tore his gaze from Alana to appraise Will. "Am I to go, Mr. Graham?" he asked.

Ever since he was young, Will Graham had the gift of empathy. He could connect with anyone, discover their deepest secrets, and find out what made them who they were. And yet, he was not sure what to make of the Lord. The gentleman was surely intriguing, if not at all overbearing by the looks of it, and yet Will was sure it was not the real him.

No, underneath the tailored suit hid something else. Something that should stay in the shadows. Something that mirrored Will's soul. And he infuriatingly longed to know more about him. 

Giving Alana a crooked smile she couldn't resist, Will Graham opened his mouth. "Oh, please don't, Lord Hannibal. The more, the merrier, as they say, right my dear wonderful friend, Alana?"

Lord Hannibal's lips twitched, amused at the blatant manipulation. "I certainly will not run away, now that you have asked me to stay. You don't really mind, Alana, do you? You have often told me that you liked your sitters to have someone to chat to."

Alana bit her lip. "If Will wishes it, of course, you must stay. Will's whims are laws to everybody, except himself." Her eyes were cold toward Lord Hannibal but softened as it landed on her muse. "Will, get up on the platform, and don't move about too much, or pay any attention to what Lord Hannibal says. He has a terrible influence over all his friends, except for myself."

Will stepped up on the dais, with the air of a young Greek martyr, and made a little moue of discontent to the innocent carpet. He tremendously adored Alana—who would not? She was a beauty— but he hated sitting for anyone. Many artists and nobles have asked, but he only agreed when it was Alana who requested it.

After a few heartbeats, Will addressed the peculiar man, "Have you really a very bad influence, Lord Hannibal? As bad as Alana says?"

"There is no such thing as a good influence, Mr. Graham. All influence is immoral,—immoral from the scientific point of view."

"Why?"

"Because to influence a person is to give him one's own soul. He does not think his natural thoughts, or burn with his natural passions. His virtues are not real to him. His sins, if there are such things as sins, are borrowed. He becomes an echo of someone else's music, an actor of a part that has not been written for him. The aim of life is self-development. To realize one's nature perfectly—that is what each of us is here for."

Lord Hannibal jumped up from the divan to stand behind Alana, watching her immortalize Will Graham with each soft stroke of her brush. Suddenly, he realized how much Alana's earlier words meant. It was as clear as day, and it would be a miracle if Will did not see it.

Alana Bloom was not only fond of Will Graham. She was in love.

Lord Hannibal's hands turned into fists, but before he could do something he most certainly will not regret, Will interrupted him. 

"Lord Hannibal," he said, lips pursed and eyes narrowed like he could read each homicidal thought Hannibal had. "You were saying?"

The nobleman froze at Will's bristle but quickly recovered. "People are afraid of themselves, nowadays. They have forgotten the highest of all duties, the duty that one owes to one's self. Of course, they are charitable. They feed the hungry and clothe the beggar. But their own souls starve, and are naked. Courage has gone out of our race. Perhaps we never really had it. The terror of society, which is the basis of morals, the terror of God, which is the secret of religion,—these are the two things that govern us. And yet—"

"Just turn your head a little more to the right, Will, like a good boy," said Alana, deep in her work, and conscious only that a look had come into the lad's face that she had never seen there before. Anger was not something she associated with her muse.

"And yet," continued Lord Hannibal, in his low, musical voice, and with that graceful wave of the hand that was always so characteristic of him, "I believe that if one man were to live his life out fully and completely, were to give form to every feeling, expression to every thought, reality to every dream,—I believe that the world would gain such a fresh impulse of joy that we would forget all the maladies of mediaevalism, and return to the Hellenic ideal,— to something finer, richer, than the Hellenic ideal, it may be."

Will Graham cocked his head to the side, an encouragement that he was still listening. That was all Lord Hannibal needed to proceed.

"But the bravest man among us is afraid of himself. The mutilation of the savage has its tragic survival in the self-denial that mars our lives. We are punished for our refusals. Every impulse that we strive to strangle broods in the mind, and poisons us. The body sins once, and has done with its sin, for action is a mode of purification. Nothing remains then but the recollection of a pleasure, or the luxury of a regret."

Will Graham pinched the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger like a headache was incoming. He had been staring at the wall for far too long that Lord Hannibal was starting to grow jealous. 

Of a wall.

Lord have mercy.

"What do you suggest, then?" 

Lord Hannibal moved closer to Will, sniffing the air that dared hover near the god. 

"Did you just smell me?" Will said through clenched teeth, and yet his whole face remained stoic. Alana noticed nothing. 

"Difficult to avoid. You are the personification of the seven deadly sins." 

The god shot him a knowing look before turning to the left at Alana's request. "You would know, Lord Lecter. But do continue your passionate tangent."

"Ah, yes. Where was I?" 

Even with Will up in the platform, the nobleman was still a few inches taller. He used this to his advantage and brushed invisible and nonexisting dirt from Will's suit jacket. 

In a whisper, so that their audience wouldn't hear, he murmured words only the devil would agree with. "The only way to get rid of temptation, my handsome, exquisite friend, is to yield to it."

At Will's gasp, Lord Hannibal persevered. "Resist it, and your soul grows sick with longing for the things it has forbidden to itself, with desire for what it's monstrous laws have made monstrous and unlawful. It has been said that the great events of the world take place in the brain. It is in the brain, and the brain only, that the great sins of the world take place also. You, Mr. Graham, you yourself, with your rose-red youth and your rose-white boyhood, you have had passions that have made you afraid, thoughts that have filled you with terror, day-dreams and sleeping dreams whose mere memory might stain your cheek with shame—"

"Stop!" muttered Will Graham, flushing all the shades of red. "For the love of God, stop."

For nearly ten minutes, Will stood there motionless, with parted lips and eyes cast downward. He was dimly conscious that entirely fresh impulses were at work within him, and they seemed to him to have come really from himself. The few words that Alana's friend had said to him—words spoken by chance, no doubt, and with willful paradox in them—had yet touched some secret chord that had never been touched before, but that he felt was now vibrating and throbbing to curious pulses.

The problem with his gift, with knowing every little thing about a person, was most of the time, what he saw scared him. Not because some people's thoughts were revolting and blasphemous. No, it was because he himself had thought of it. Despite Will Graham's perfect exterior, his soul was anything but. 

Lord Hannibal watched him with his devilish smile that should be plastered on a wanted sign. He knew the precise psychological moment when to say nothing. He felt intensely interested. He was amazed at the sudden impression that his words had produced. He had merely shot an arrow into the air. Had it hit the mark? How fascinating the young man was!

Alana painted away with that exquisite bold touch of hers that had the true refinement and perfect delicacy that come only from strength. She was unconscious of the silence.

"My dear Alana, I am a bit tired of standing," said Will Graham, suddenly. "I must go out and sit in the garden. The air is stifling here."

Alana's face wrinkled in displeasure. "Will, I am so sorry. When I am painting, I can't think of anything else. But you never sat better. You were perfectly still. And I have caught the effect I wanted—the half-parted lips and the bright look in the eyes. I don't know what Hannibal has been saying to you, but he has certainly made you have the most wonderful expression. I suppose he has been paying you compliments. You mustn't believe a word that he says."

"He has certainly not been paying me compliments. Perhaps that is the reason I don't think I believe anything he has told me."

"You know you believe it all," said Lord Hannibal, looking at him with his dreamy, heavy-lidded eyes. "I will go out to the garden with you. It is horridly hot in the studio. Alana, let us have something iced to drink, something with strawberries in it."

"No, you must stay with Alana." Will protested, but the Lord was already walking away.

Infuriating. 

Deciding to cool his fevered head, Will Graham buried his face in the great cool lilac-blossoms, drinking in their perfume as if it had been wine. He was bareheaded, and the leaves had tossed his rebellious curls and tangled all their gilded threads. There was a look of fear in his eyes, such as people have when they are suddenly awakened. His finely-chiseled nostrils quivered, and some hidden nerve shook the scarlet of his lips and left them trembling.

Lord Hannibal came close to him and put his hand upon his shoulder. "You are a wonderful creature. You know more than you think you know, just as you know less than you want to know."

Will Graham frowned and turned his head away. "I can't pay you the same compliment. I do not find you interesting."

The nobleman smiled and stepped back. "Do not fret about that. You soon will."

Will Graham's mind betrayed him. For no matter how much his conscience tried to hate the man, he could not help but think he was the most fascinating man he had ever met. His romantic olive-colored face and worn expression interested him. There was something in his low, languid voice that was absolutely marvelous. His cool, white, flower-like hands, even, had a curious charm. As he spoke, they moved, like music, and seemed to have a language of their own. But he felt afraid of him and ashamed of being afraid. 

"Let us go and sit in the shade, darling boy," said Lord Hannibal. "Parker has brought out the drinks, and if you stay any longer in this glare, you will be quite spoiled. You have a wonderfully beautiful face, Mr. Graham. Wherever you go, you charm the world. Don't frown. You have. And Beauty is one of the world's great facts, like sunlight, or spring-time, or the reflection in dark waters of that silver shell we call the moon. It cannot be questioned. It has its divine right of sovereignty. It makes princes of those who have it."

"I came here to be alone, Lord Hannibal. I do not wish for a conversation."

Lord Hannibal handed him a drink, an excuse to touch his hand again. "And yet we are having it. The moment I met you, I saw that you were quite unconscious of what you are, what you really might be. There was so much about you that charmed me that I felt I must tell you something about yourself. I thought how tragic it would be if you were wasted. You and I, dear Will, are just alike. Problem-free."

Will Graham listened, open-eyed and wondering. The spray of lilac fell from his hand upon the gravel. A furry bee came and buzzed round it for a moment. Then it began to scramble all over the fretted purple of the tiny blossoms. He watched it with that strange interest in trivial things that we try to develop when things of high import make us afraid, or when we are stirred by some new emotion, for which we cannot find expression, or when some thought that terrifies us lays sudden siege to the brain and calls on us to yield. After a time, it flew away. He saw it creeping into the stained trumpet of a Tyrian convolvulus. The flower seemed to quiver and then swayed gently to and fro.

Suddenly Alana appeared at the studio's door and made frantic signs for them to come in. 

"I am waiting," cried Alana. "Do come in. The light is quite perfect, and you can bring your drinks."

They rose and sauntered down the walk together. Two green-and-white butterflies fluttered past them, and in the pear-tree, at the end of the garden, a thrush began to sing.

"You are glad you have met me, Mr. Graham. As I am tremendously glad to have met you," said Lord Hannibal, looking at him.

"That is where you are wrong, Lord Lecter." Will Graham abruptly seized his arm, blue orbs boring right into his soul. "I see you. And sir, I do not like what I see." Then he stepped upon the platform and resumed his pose.

Lord Hannibal blinked and took a moment to compose himself. He had never experienced such thrill in his life. To be seen, to be known, to finally be understood, he had not even known he wanted it before. It didn't matter what Will said, for Hannibal could see it behind his facade.   
He, too, was just as transfixed. 

For minutes the sweep and dash of the brush on the canvas made the only sound that broke the stillness. In the slanting beams that streamed through the open doorway, the dust danced and was golden. The heavy scent of the roses seemed to brood over everything.

After about a quarter of an hour, Alana stopped painting, looked for a long time at Will Graham, and then for a long time at the picture, biting the end of one of her huge brushes and smiling. "It is quite finished," she cried, at last, and stooping down, she wrote her name in thin vermilion letters on the left-hand corner of the canvas.

Lord Hannibal came over and examined the picture, ecstatic. It was indeed an excellent work of art and a remarkable likeness as well.

"My dear Alana, I congratulate you most warmly," he said. "Mr. Graham, come and look at yourself."

The young man started as if awakened from some dream. "Is it really finished?" he murmured, stepping down from the platform.

"Quite finished," said Alana. "And you have sat splendidly today. I am awfully obliged to you."

"That is entirely due to me," broke in Lord Hannibal. "Isn't it, Mr. Graham?"

Will made no answer but passed listlessly in front of his picture and turned towards it. When he saw it, he drew back, and his cheeks flushed for a moment with embarrassment. He often wondered why people thought him handsome when he himself did not.

As he thought of it, a sharp pang of pain struck like a knife across him and made each delicate fiber of his nature quiver. His eyes deepened into amethyst, and a mist of tears came across them. He felt as if a hand of ice had been laid upon his heart.

"Don't you like it?" cried Alana at last, stung a little by the lad's silence and not understanding what it meant.

"Of course he likes it," said Lord Hannibal. "Who wouldn't like it? It is one of the greatest things in modern art. I will give you anything you like to ask for it. I must have it."

"It is not my property, Hannibal."

"Whose property is it?" 

"Will's, of course."

"No, Alana, I must have it. Name your price."

"Hannibal!"

"How sad it is," murmured Will Graham, with his eyes still fixed upon his own portrait. "How sad it is that this portrait only shows human flesh, and I, with a living, breathing soul, am cursed upon knowing things I did not ask for. I wish it did. I wish every darkness I feel, it feels, every horrendous thought splashed on the expensive paint. For this—for this—I would give everything. Yes, there is nothing in the whole world I would not give."

"You would hardly care for that arrangement, Alana," cried Lord Hannibal, laughing, but in truth, he would steal the painting if that was truly what it did. If it showed everything Will saw, Hannibal, in turn, would give the world. 

"I should object very strongly, Hannibal."

Will Graham turned and looked at her. "It is stunning, Alana. You truly are the most talented person I know."

Lord Hannibal sniffed and lifted his chin in silent protest. Like a child would do.

"I am glad you appreciate my work at last, Will," said Alana, blushing.

"Appreciate it? I am in love with everything that you do, Alana. You know this, don't you?" Will swept the back of his hand on the painter's cheek. 

Lord Hannibal obnoxiously coughed. 

"I-well-I mean. Of course, my dearest, loveliest Will. As soon as the painting is dry, it shall be varnished, framed, and sent home. Then you can do what you like with yourself." She walked across the room and rang the bell for tea. "You will have tea, of course, Will? And don't you have another engagement, Hannibal?"

Will arched a brow at the nobleman, who promptly grinned back. "No, Alana, I do not have any other engagements this evening."

There came a knock at the door, and the butler entered with the tea-tray and set it down upon a small Japanese table. There was a rattle of cups and saucers and the hissing of a fluted Georgian urn. Two globe-shaped china dishes were brought in by a page. Will Graham went over and poured the tea out, while the other two sauntered languidly to the table and examined what was under the covers.

"Let us go to the theatre tonight," said Lord Hannibal. 'There is sure to be something on, somewhere."

"I'd rather not," said Will, sipping his tea. 

"If you do not go, I shall take the greatest offense." 

Aqua eyes scorched his skin, and Lord Hannibal relished in the attention. Yes, he should like to show his new shiny diamond in front of all his acquaintances. Once they see him with Lord Hannibal, everyone would know whom he belonged to. Lord Hannibal was many things; most of all, he was possessive. 

Will Graham, being forced to play a game he did not want to, smiled his sweet smile. "Then I shall have to change my mind. I will go to the theater with you, Lord Hannibal, but only if Alana joins us as well."

A growl turned to a cough, and as if his tooth was being pulled, Lord Hannibal conceded. "Of course, of course. It would be my pleasure, Alana."

The smug smirk from Alana threatened his sanity. 

And so it was settled. The three of them would go to the theater, the very place where all of London converged. 

Lord Hannibal reassessed the situation. 

He would stake his claim tonight. Damn the consequences.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hannibal Lecter VS Alana Bloom. Place your bets!


	3. Mutually Assured Destruction

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Good Lord I've been wanting to publish this in FOREVER. Alas, life had other plans.  
> I appreciate all the comments and kudos! And again, no betas, we die like Hannibal's virginity at the sight of one Will Graham.

It was a beautiful night. A night full of mystery and wonder. Electricity and a whiff of something that was yet to come. A night that would forever be remembered as the first time Will Graham and Lord Hannibal Lecter stepped out in society together. 

The first, but most certainly not the last.

The theater was bright, with white paint and golden hues. Chandeliers acted as mirrorballs, glittering like stars in the sky. The seats resembled a sea of blood, and the private boxes branched out along the walls toward the stage, in multiple levels, organized into groups of three or four armchairs. Curtained privacy was ideal for Lord Hannibal's needs. Solitude and isolation were of utmost importance. 

Naturally, Lord Hannibal had a private box waiting for the three of them. Tonight, they would be watching a screening of Strauss' Salome, one of the nobleman's favorite plays.

Lord Hannibal changed into a spotless tux before going to the theater. It was a lifelong agenda of his not to be overshadowed by anyone, always donning expensive clothes like suits of armor. Even the crown jewels in the world could not do it—all except one Will Graham. 

It was unfair, really, how the young man stood like the male version of Aphrodite. He, too, had changed. He now wore a dark blue suit with a matching vest but no tie. Instead, the first top buttons of his dress shirt were undone, testing Lord Hannibal's nerves. Just the image of the pale skin was enough to ruffle the gentleman. Of course, if he were entirely truthful, he felt anything but a gentleman in the presence of the lad.

Alana had her arm draped around Will's, her ostentatious blue dress matching her companion's. There was no denying it, the two looked and acted like a couple—a ghastly sight for one overly jealous Lord.

A bright banner hung from the balcony as the three of them entered the theater, with the headline appearing in flowing letters, smooth and red enough that it struck against the neutral background—a near foreshadowing of the harrowing and destructive tale. 

Once they entered the grand hall, an escort immediately offered champagne flutes. A short distraction for Lord Hannibal to find Lady Bedelia standing near the bar alone. Her ivory skin was a contrast to the mahogany table.

"Well, Hannibal," said the Lady, appraising the Lord's loud suit. "What brings you out tonight?"

Lord Hannibal leaned against the counter, giving Bedelia a nod at her simple dress before zeroing in on Will Graham once more. "Purely selfish reasons, I assure you, Bedelia. I want to get something out of you."

She quirked an eyebrow, intrigued. "Do go on."

"Tell me more about Will Graham." An order, not a request. 

Bedelia scoured her eyes through the growing crowd until she spotted the young man. "I see you've finally met him then, based on your predatory gaze. He is not an object to be claimed, you know."

"Yes, yes. I met him through Alana. Now I want to know more about him." Lord Hannibal had wholly brushed off the comments he found of no use to him.

Lady Bedelia, ever graceful, sipped her wine and smiled at a few passing acquaintances. Many of whom Lord Hannibal also knew but did not give even the tiniest bit of acknowledgment. The nobleman's attention was focused on one person alone. 

"There is always the option of asking him, Hannibal." 

The Lord jutted his lower lip. "He does not seem to like me."

Bedelia laughed, sharp and taunting. Her blonde hair fell behind her shoulder, exposing the same amount of skin as Will, although it looked rather tacky when she did it. "Yes, I suppose he won't. Will Graham has a certain affinity for... _seeing_ things."

Lord Hannibal glowered at his closest friend and confidant. "Will you tell me or not?"

A soft chuckle came from Will's direction, distracting the nobleman from his annoyance. It reminded him of wind chimes and choir songs. 

Bedelia sighed, thinking her friend was a lost cause. She wondered who she should feel more sorry for, Hannibal or Will?

"He is the last Lord Kelso's grandson. His mother was a Devereux, Lady Margaret Devereux. She was a gorgeous girl and made all the men frantic by running away with a penniless young fellow--a mere nobody, a subaltern in a foot regiment, or something of that kind. Certainly. I remember the story as if it happened yesterday. The poor chap was killed in a duel at Spa a few months after the marriage. There was an ugly story about it. They said Kelso got some rascally adventurer, some Belgian brute, to insult his son-in-law in public--paid him to do it--and that the fellow spitted his man as if he had been a pigeon. The thing was hushed up, but Kelso ate his chop alone at the club for some time afterward. He brought his daughter back with him, and she never spoke to him again. The girl died, too, died within a year. She left a son, and like his mother, Will Graham is a good-looking chap."

"He is very good-looking," assented Lord Hannibal, eyes never wavering from the young man. 

Will was presently chatting with Lord Crawford and his wife. Alana was still resolutely by his side. A waiter bumped into him, spilling drops of champagne on his chest. It gave Alana the perfect reason to dote over him, wiping it away with a handkerchief. 

Lord Hannibal took a few steps forward before Bedelia dragged him back.

"I hope he will fall into proper hands," she said, giving Hannibal a knowing look. "He has been through enough growing up alone. And his gift did not make it easier. Kelso was an unfeeling man, but Will should have a pot of money waiting for him to make up for it. His mother had money, too. All the Selby property came to her, through her grandfather."

"I don't know," answered Lord Hannibal, huffing. "I fancy that the boy will be well off. He is not of age yet. He has Selby, I know. He told me so. And ... his mother was very beautiful?"

Of course, aesthetics were more important to Lord Hannibal than anything else.

Bedelia deposited her empty glass on the counter and waited for the waiter to fill it back up again. She was far too sober for her friend's plight. 

"Margaret Devereux was one of the loveliest creatures I ever saw, Hannibal. What on earth induced her to behave as she did, I never could understand. She could have married anybody she chose. Carlington was mad after her. She was romantic, though. All the women of that family were. The men were a poor lot, but the women were wonderful. And by the way, Hannibal, talking about silly marriages, when are you going to get yourself a proper partner?"

Lord Hannibal snapped his gaze to Bedelia, a sly smile forming on his face. "Oh, soon, my dear friend. Very soon. Men marry because they are tired, women because they are curious: both are disappointed. I believe the subject of my fancy shall never bore me, Bedelia. I find him rather difficult to predict."

Bedelia scrunched her face in discomfort. "Hannibal, if you think you have a chance with Will Graham, think again. You can have anyone, anyone at all. Do not taint the most innocent person in my acquaintance. You are becoming obsessed."

"I am simply intrigued."

"Obsessively. I have never seen you come to the theater with anyone."

"Then Will Graham must be extremely special."

As if invoking the god, Will and his party walked over to Lord Hannibal and Lady Bedelia, although the young man seemed to be coerced into it. He looked rather content to keep the Lord at bay. 

Lady Bedelia downed her second glass of wine.

"What a night full of miracles! Hannibal, is it true you finally got Will here to attend a social affair? Good god, how did you do it?" Lady Crawford cried out, placing a mischievous hand on Will's shoulder.

The young man hunched his shoulders in distress, but no one seemed to notice. Lord Hannibal pursed his lips. So Will wasn't only averse to his touch, but everyones.

"It didn't take much convincing, Bella. Will and I wanted to spend more time together, you see. I believe this is what most people call as getting to know each other, or in other words, a court--" 

"I have never seen this play before," Will cut off, looking as pale as a ghost. "And Lord Hannibal was kind enough to share his box to Alana and me. Who could refuse such an offer, Lady Crawford?"

Bella was charmed at the young man, simply charmed. "Jack and I could have taken you, Will. We've been wanting to show you many plays since we made your acquaintance! Ah, but what do you think about our friend, Hannibal? Did you know he is the most eligible bachelor here?" Bella winked at the Lord, and Hannibal could have kissed her feet.

Will's hands shook, and he folded it behind him. "He is quite a character, yes."

"Such high praise, wonderful boy." Lord Hannibal winked at him and moved to stand at Will's left side, Alana by his right. 

"Bedelia! I did not know you were coming tonight," Lord Crawford observed, kissing her hand affectionately. All the nobles in London knew each other quite intimately, and with the addition of Will, they all clamored to get his favor. There was an air around the young man. One was always intrigued by him. One wanted to be liked by him. But his eyes were stubbornly glued at Alana. 

"Trust me, Jack, I quite regret coming," Bedelia murmured, narrowing her eyes at Hannibal. 

"Lady Bedelia, it is nice to see you again," Will complimented, a sincere smile on his face. Ah, yes. It was that smile that seemed to enamor the world. 

"Likewise, my dear. It has been some time since you played for me. Ah, but look, there is a perfectly fine-looking grand piano here. Would you indulge us?"

"You play?" Lord Hannibal asked, eyes widening. Did the young man have any faults at all?

"Will is a majestic pianist," Alana explained, pride oozing out of her voice. "He once played for the Queen herself, isn't that right, my dear?"

Will tucked a loose curl over Alana's ear. "You flatter me, my dearest friend."

"Will you play for us, then?" Bella persuaded. 

"I couldn't. I mean- I don't have my sheet music, and well--"

Lord Hannibal took Will's left hand in his, and all present aristocrats saw the meaning behind the action. "Won't you play for us, lovely boy?"

He placed a chaste kiss on Will's exposed skin. "For me?"

A battle of willpower ensued. Will Graham was appalled, of course, while Lord Hannibal was amused. Every affection, every nonconsensual liberty he took with Will in public would only cement what he knew the first time he saw the revered portrait.

Will Graham was his. Everyone would know it.

"Unhand me, sir," Will hissed in that passive way of his. 

"Play for me, and I shall have no other choice."

Lady Bedelia could be seen eyeing a whole bottle of wine. 

"Oh, look at that," Alana cried out. "I can hear the music. The play is starting every one. Perhaps Will could be excused for now?"

The group was torn between two works of art, but ultimately Will's affronted look pacified them.

"After the play, then?" Lord Hannibal persevered, loosening his hold on Will's hand.

Will smiled at his companions, noncommittal. 

Lord Hannibal led his party to their assigned box, showing off his wealth to his paramour. It was the highest one in the house. They would be looking down at all of London's nobility from where they sat. 

A King, a Queen, and a Dark Knight.

There were copies of the program on the seats. Loosely based on the biblical story, Salome was a princess who desired Jokanaan to a perilous degree. When he did not return her affections, Salome decided to dance for Herod, the King, to seduce him into granting her wish. After the dance, she demanded the head of Jokanaan on a silver tray, upon which she kissed his dead lips. 

All too soon, the orchestra began its eerie hum, and the opera started.

The singer performing the role of Salome was particularly transfixing. Her voice carried the trembling moments of passion and the convulsions of Salome's turmoil with remarkable skill. 

_You looked on the face of God, Jokanaan, but me you have never seen. If you had looked at me, you'd have fallen in love. Oh, but why did you not look at me? If you'd but once looked at me, you would have fallen in love. I know for sure you would have fallen in love._

The opera went on in agonizing anxiety. Salome's lustful greed was felt with every step, every sway, and every word. A want so deadly that it drove all to madness. 

Her final words blossomed into a beautiful, decadent love statement, supported by the orchestra's romantic tone.

Salome's dance stopped, and she kissed Jokanaan's severed head. 

_But what of that? What about that? For I have kissed your mouth, at last, Jokanaan. Yes, now I have kissed your mouth. Did it taste like blood? No? But it might taste like love. They say love tastes bitter. But what is it doing? What is it doing? I kissed your mouth, Jokanaan._

_I kissed it, your mouth._

King Herod went on a wild rage at the disgusting sight, and then the stage was plunged into partial darkness as the opera ended.

_Love and death._

_Adoration and obsession._

_Wanting someone you can never have._

Salome was the embodiment of lust. Of the seven deadly sins combined. Destruction. 

Lord Hannibal stood up and clapped, observing the restored ceiling and then his handsome companion, a despairing thought unnerving him.

_But by the God that I do not believe in, I wish I can have a life with you._

~

Will was visibly shaking, and it took a concerned look from Alana to calm him down. From Lord Hannibal's suffocating attention, the crowd, and the loud noises, he couldn't seem to get a grip on reality. He felt himself slowly dissociating, floating away to the safety of his mind.

With a flimsy excuse, Will staggered toward the restrooms, the corridors still empty. Everyone reveled in the conclusion of the play, and most were headed to the bar to get more drinks. These sort of things never truly ended once the play does. That was why Will never felt like attending. 

Halfway through his trek, the thought of moving incapacitated him, and he slumped on the carpeted floor. A hundred minds, a thousand feelings, and a kaleidoscope of neurons attacked him all at once. 

Breathing was limited. The ground shook from underneath him, his vision blurring until the press of a warm body snapped him out of it.

Will blinked at Lord Hannibal, and the Lord smiled. "Better?"

The young man clenched and unclenched his hands, gulped in air, and hit the wall with his head once. "Yes, thank you."

"You were overwhelmed."

"Yes."

"Not anymore?"

"No."

"Hmm," Lord Hannibal stood up and held a hand out. 

Will surprisingly took it, and the men walked further down the hall until they reached a dark room. Lord Hannibal flicked the switch, and an audible gasp escaped Will's mouth. 

It was a music room or a stage room; he wasn't quite sure. But this was where the theater's equipment was stored. A marvelous sight.

"Being a patron of the arts comes with a few benefits. I.e., a private tour." Lord Hannibal informed. 

Will skimmed the area, noting the subtle dark grey wallpaper that resembled canvas. In the middle of the room was a silvery grey carpet, and the furniture was covered with dark green materials. All the instruments were painted black—a unique sight. But everything paled in comparison to the stunning grand piano. 

He strode toward it and sat down. Absentmindedly, he played the first piece that came to mind. Mozart's haunting Requiem.

"Mozart never finished this piece. Some sources say that he came to believe he was writing the Requiem for his funeral." Will said, letting the weight of the opus flood through. Inexplicably harrowing. 

Lord Hannibal sat beside him, his right leg briefly touching the lad's before moving away. He played on the left side of the keys, creating a duet of sorts. 

Will's hand coordination was impressive. It was as if he merely glided through the keys, never touching them. Exemplary. 

"The completed version of the Requiem was given to Count Franz von Walsegg, for a service to commemorate the anniversary of his wife's death." Lord Hannibal added.

"On Valentine's Day." Will finished, fingers drifting dangerously close to his companion's.

"Wouldn't you say it's romantic?"

"I'm not a romantic."

Lord Hannibal stopped playing, but Will continued. "And what are you, cynical boy?"

With the softest whisper, Will answered. "Not interested."

A charming laugh rebounded off the walls. Lord Hannibal rested his hands on his lap and smiled at the young man. "Have you ever read Plato's Symposium?"

Will nodded, a ghost of an odd emotion hidden inside his eyes. He seemed to be determined to keep his feelings at bay, which was fine all the same. Lord Hannibal loved the thrill of the chase.

"So, you are familiar with the story of our original human nature?" Lord Hannibal moved his hand from his person to Will's, emphasizing his words.

"How we all once had four legs and two heads."

The Lord beamed, delighted. "Yes. We each had two sets of arms, two legs, and two faces looking in opposite directions. Due to these original humans' power, the gods began to fear that their reign might be threatened. They sought a way to end the humans' insolence without destroying them. So Zeus hurled down his lightning bolts and divided the humans in half."

Will struck the keys violently. "How very godly."

"Indeed. Worried that the humans, now alone and losing the will to live, might not survive or multiply—Zeus decided on a few repairs. Instead of heads facing backward or out, they would rotate our heads back forward. They pulled our skin taut and knotted it at the belly button. And most importantly, they left us with a memory, a glimmer of hope, a longing for our original other half."

Will's eyes screamed melancholy. A past Lord Hannibal badly wanted to be privy to. "Separated, we are but the indenture of a person, and we are always looking for our other half. And when one of us meets our other half, we pass our whole lives together, desiring that we should be melted into one. One person instead of two. The concept of marriage reborn. And so that after our death, there will be one departed soul instead of two. And the reason is that human nature was originally one and we were a whole, and the desire and pursuit of the whole is called Love."

"And you say you're not a romantic," Lord Hannibal said.

Will opened his mouth to protest, but their private bubble came to an end.

"There you are!" Alana walked through the door, accompanied by a bigger party than earlier that evening. The Crawfords, Lady Bedelia, and other friends took in the sight of Will Graham and Lord Hannibal Lecter. Two single, well-off bachelors coming to the theater and hiding in a room together, playing a duet. 

Will knew how it would look, and based on Lord Hannibal's smug grin, he basked in the implication. 

The Lord struck a key in delight. "Ah, Mr. Graham. Do not worry. I am interested enough for the both of us."

And by God, it wasn't a promise. It was a threat.

**Author's Note:**

> Hannibal is BESOTTED. Kudos and comments encouraged!


End file.
